


A Quiet Reflection

by Rosie_Rues



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-18
Updated: 2011-08-18
Packaged: 2017-10-22 19:29:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/241716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosie_Rues/pseuds/Rosie_Rues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The mirror stopped speaking to him a week after Sirius was arrested.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Quiet Reflection

The mirror stopped speaking to him a week after Sirius was arrested. It had always preferred Sirius, giggling when he posed in front of it with his tongue poking out as he crossed his eyes in an attempt to get his hair just  _so_ , whispering lewd comments when Sirius strutted out of the shower, and disapproving loudly whenever he tried to seduce Remus in the bathroom ( _"No, Padfoot, not in front of_ that _mirror!"_. Sirius encouraged it with shameless flirting and judicious nudity, and Remus pretended to be long-suffering and laughed where the mirror couldn't see him.

When Remus told it Sirius Black was a traitor and a murderer, it screamed for a day and then fell silent. For the first few months, he didn't care. There were too many other voices he wanted to hear more, and would never hear again.

After a year, though, he began to wonder about the mirror. There was no one else left for him to talk to. So he tried to coax it back into speech, with reason and flattery and (rarely) threats. Still, the mirror did not speak. He cleaned the dust from its glass and polished its frame, but got not a sigh. Could a mirror die of grief, Remus wondered, gazing at it and seeing only himself looking back. Were they like house elves and old dogs, kept alive only by the constant presence of the one they loved?

The mirror had no answers. It did not speak.

In time, Remus gave up.

The years passed. Remus stayed in the flat, letting dust and books hide the smears of oil on the walls and the little heaps of engine parts and potions ingredients. Some years he went away, seeking out places where the sun blazed through the sky and the flowers grew in lurid hues. Other years he barely went outside at all. He let some things moulder, and kept others meticulously neat. He wrote letters and never sent them. Sometimes, burrowing through the flat in search of a particular book, he happened upon remnants of the past - a dusty dog collar, a Beater's bat with a crack down the middle, one of James' socks, which bellowed, "My willy's green and hairy!" when he tried to pick them up.

He left them where he found them, but kept the mirror clean. Month by month, year by year, his reflection grew dimmer and greyer. This was where the heroes went, dead or faded into dull nothings.

Then Dumbledore called him, and he went, and within a year his heart was broken and remade.

He returned home at the end of the year, and began to clean, offering the mirror a sincere apology as he shifted furniture and set traps for the Glumbumbles which lived in the airing cupboard (he would send them to Hogwarts as a peace offering for Severus, who could use them for his NEWT level classes). 

The mirror, probably long dead, stayed quiet.

He was away a lot, that year, working when he could, discreetly locating and replenishing old caches from the last war, locating members of the old Order in readiness for the day it all began again. Owls came to him at strange hours, bearing cryptic or passionate notes. He started buying the Prophet again, torn between pride and anxiety. He cut out the news of Harry's first triumph and saved it, because Lily would have and couldn't. Lying in his narrow bed at nights, he clenched his fist over his heart and thought,  _soon, soon._

When summer came again, he tackled the last problem the flat offered - extracting the grindylow which had moved into his water tank. He was just pulling on his rubber gloves when a little, creaky, flaking voice said, "Oh!"

It was the mirror. 

Remus spun round, dropping the rubber gloves, and there he was, leaning against the doorframe, his cheeks hollow and his eyes bright.

"There's my boy!" the mirror cried. "There's my poor, brave boy!"

 _Yes,_  Remus thought, stumbling forward.  _Oh, yes, yes, yes_


End file.
